by John Banister Tabb
My life is but a leaf upon the tree --
A growth upon the stem that feedeth all
A touch of frost -- and suddenly I fall,
To follow where my sister-blossoms be.
The selfsame sun, the shadow, and the rain,
That brought the budding verdure to the bough,
Shall strip the fading foliage as now,
And leave the limb in nakedness again.
My life is but a leaf upon the tree;
The winds of birth and death upon it blow;
But whence it came and whither it shall go,
Is mystery of mysteries to me.
John Lane, LondonCopeland and Day, Boston